Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. (The Parazodiac Nexus #1)

10. Lost Fantasies Of What’s Possible

10

LOST FANTASIES OF WHAT’S POSSIBLE

~VALE~

T he modified van blends seamlessly into the shadows of Ravenscroft's blind spot, its jet-black exterior making it virtually invisible in the darkness.

I can't help but smirk at the irony - a facility this size, with all its government funding and cutting-edge security, and they've somehow missed this perfect dead zone in its surveillance grid.

No cameras.

No motion sensors.

Not even basic electromagnetic monitoring.

Just a blank spot in their defense network, like a hole in a supposedly impenetrable wall.

It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.

The tactical part of my mind automatically catalogs this weakness for future reference.

A facility this size having such an obvious vulnerability speaks to deeper problems in their security infrastructure. The kind of oversight that suggests either incompetence or, more likely, the arrogance of those who think they're untouchable.

I shift in my combat gear, the familiar weight of the bulletproof vest beneath my black tactical clothing both comforting and constraining.

Everything is designed for stealth - no reflective surfaces, no loose straps, nothing that could catch light or make noise.

Perfect invisibility for the eyes in the shadows.

The bank of monitors before me bathes my face in a blue glow, each screen showing a different aspect of Ravenscroft's external security.

Camera feeds I've hijacked, guard patrol patterns I've mapped, and the live thermal imaging that will let me track our team's progress once they move in.

Through my earpiece, I can hear the chaos of fifteen alphas trying to plan together. The other subdivision units arrived faster than expected - probably eager for action after hearing about the potential omega extractions.

Fifteen apex predators in one room.

The thought makes me grateful to be out here in my mobile command center rather than in that testosterone-fueled planning session. The energy of that many dominant alphas in close quarters would be overwhelming even on a good day.

And today is definitely not a good day.

My legs twitch beneath the desk, a reminder of the constant battle my body wages against itself. The disease is progressing faster now - I can feel it in the way my muscles protest even simple movements, in how the numbness creeps higher each week.

My eyes drift to the modified injector sitting beside my laptop.

It looks deceptively simple, like a standard EpiPen, but this is something else entirely. Something experimental, dangerous, and absolutely necessary if I want to be of any use to my pack tonight.

One shot.

That's all I get.

One chance to temporarily reverse the paralysis, to make my legs work like they used to. The doctors warned me about using it —— said the strain could accelerate the disease's progression and could cost me months of what little time I had left.

But what good is saving time if you can't use it when it matters?

The sound of raised voices comes through my earpiece, making me wince. Subdivision B's lead alpha is arguing tactics with C's enforcement specialist, while D's whole unit seems content to watch the chaos unfold.

I adjust the volume, filtering through the frequencies until I can focus on just my pack's voices:

Atlas, his calm authority cutting through the noise: "The primary target is in the lower levels. We'll need coordinated entry points."

Dante, probably studying the blueprints I provided: "These ventilation shafts could work. They're tight but manageable."

Kieran, his tone carrying that edge it gets before a fight: "Underground access through the maintenance tunnels gives us more coverage."

A burst of static makes me flinch, reminding me to stay focused on my own preparations rather than getting lost in their planning.

I have my role to play, and it's just as crucial as theirs.

My fingers dance across the keyboard, running final checks on all systems.

The van's modifications have turned it into a mobile command center that would make military intelligence drool —— state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, computer systems capable of hacking most known security protocols, and enough processing power to run real-time analysis of multiple data streams simultaneously.

This is where I shine.

Not in physical combat anymore - though the injector promises a temporary return to those capabilities - but in the digital realm where intelligence and strategy matter more than brute strength.

I pull up the thermal imaging of Ravenscroft's lower levels, studying the heat signatures that move through the facility like blood through veins. Each dot represents a life, a potential threat or ally, a variable in the complex equation of extraction.

The layout reminds me of a chess board —— pieces moving in predictable patterns, following established rules. But unlike chess, this game has no clear moves and no guaranteed strategies for success.

Just controlled chaos and calculated risks.

My hand brushes against the injector again, its presence both comforting and terrifying. The last time I used one of these, the pain afterward kept me bedridden for weeks.

The temporary mobility it provides comes at a steep cost —— one that increases with each use.

But having it here, knowing I have the option if things go wrong…is like carrying a last-resort weapon.

Something that could mean the difference between success and failure, between life and death for my pack.

Through my earpiece, I hear the planning session starting to wrap up. The other subdivision units are finally falling into line, probably realizing that Atlas's strategy is their best shot at success.

I check the time; less than an hour until the operation begins.

My legs spasm again, harder this time, as if protesting their current uselessness. I grip the edge of my desk, riding out the wave of pain and frustration that follows.

This used to be so different.

I remember missions where I was right there with them, moving through shadows with lethal grace, my body a weapon honed by years of training. Now I'm relegated to support duty, watching through cameras while others do the physical work.

But that doesn't make me useless.

I pull up another screen, this one showing the power grid layout for Ravenscroft's lower levels. In the digital realm, I'm still deadly. Still capable of the precision and timing that made me valuable to the pack in the first place.

Atlas specifically ordered me to stay in position unless there's an emergency. He knows what using that injection could cost me, and knows how it might accelerate the disease's progression.

But he also knows I'll use it if they need me.

Because that's what pack means -— being willing to sacrifice everything if it means keeping your family safe.

Even if that sacrifice comes in the form of borrowed time and strength, paid for with pieces of your future.

The voices in my earpiece grow more focused now, moving from planning to final preparations. I hear weapons being checked, communications tested, and positions assigned.

Fifteen alphas preparing for war.

All efforts for a set of Omegas we’ve never met in our entire lives…

That’s the craziest part when you think about it. Going over and beyond for four Omegas who never knew we even existed. We know nothing about them. Their impacts or contributions to the world.

Heck, we don’t even have faces to their patient numbers…

Yet, here we are. About to conduct a mission that could end lethal if one mistake is made.

It won’t happen.

My pack will get out of there. All of them will, for justice needs to be served, and this is the start of that ultimate mission that needs to be a trajectory for others to follow and lead in our footsteps.

Break this cycle once and for all…

My fingers move across the keyboard again, bringing up the surveillance feeds I've tapped into. Everything looks normal —— guards making their rounds, staff going about their routine tasks, the facility humming with its usual nighttime activity.

They have no idea what's coming.

No idea that four elite units of the Parazodiac Nexus Ops are about to tear their carefully constructed world apart. Their secret omega experimentation program is about to be exposed in the most violent way possible, and with how we set everything up, the government won’t be able to say shit.

Unless they want to join the sinking ship they’ve been secretly funding all this while in hopes of never being caught.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I think about it.

For all their security, government backing, and military-grade protection, they never expected this. Couldn’t imagine that a group of "broken" alphas would dare to challenge their authority by breaking into the depths of their strongest protected fortress and attempting to offer a pack opportunity to these Omegas to save them from this cycle of cruelty.

Never thought their perfect system could be threatened by the very outcasts they dismiss as defective.

Pure entertainment.

Through my earpiece, I hear Atlas giving final instructions to the other unit leaders. His voice carries that quiet authority that makes even the most dominant alphas pay attention —— the kind of power that doesn't need to be loud to be felt.

My role in all this is clear: monitor security patterns, coordinate movements, and handle any digital threats that might compromise the mission. Be the eyes and ears for four teams operating in hostile territory.

The final most important thing is easy to commit to:

Keep my pack alive.

The final minutes tick down as I run my pre-mission checks one last time. Everything is in place, and every system primed and ready.

Through my earpiece, I listen to Atlas conclude the meeting with our traditional ritual —— all hands in the center, a moment of connection before the chaos begins. Some might call it cheesy, but this gesture is more suited to high school sports teams than elite operatives.

But they don't understand.

They don't know what it means to wonder if this touch, this warmth of hands piled together, might be the last time you feel your pack's energy as one.

The memory of countless similar moments flashes through my mind —— missions where we all came back, while others had us barely surviving. Those instances left us with permanent scars both visible and hidden.

Each time, that simple gesture carried the weight of everything we couldn't say.

Everything we might never get to say.

I know the routine by heart now.

After the hands break apart, they'll move to their designated positions. Twenty minutes until they reach the site, waiting for my signal to begin the infiltration. Twenty minutes for me to run final checks, to ensure everything is perfect.

Because perfect is what they need from me tonight.

Taking a measured breath, I pull my second laptop closer, positioning it carefully in the center of my workspace. This one is completely isolated - no speakers, no integrated connections, nothing that could potentially link it to our other systems.

Some might call it paranoia, this level of digital segregation. But I've learned the hard way that sometimes the worst betrayals come from trusted sources.

Like the time I thought I could trust Marcus.

The memory rises unbidden — Marcus, Dante's older brother, the alpha who'd seemed so perfect on paper. Who'd taken me under his wing when I first joined the agency, teaching me the intricacies of pack dynamics and mission protocols.

Who'd used that trust to nearly get us all killed.

I still remember the moment it all went wrong.

The mission that should have been routine, the security systems that suddenly turned against us, the trap that nearly claimed all our lives. Later, we discovered that Marcus had sold us out, and had used my trust in him to gain access to our systems.

Had used my own code against my pack.

The betrayal had nearly destroyed us. Not just physically - though the injuries from that mission had been severe - but emotionally. The knowledge that someone we trusted, someone we considered family, could turn on us so completely...

It changed something fundamental in how we operate.

Changed Dante who ended things off with a bullet that should have gone through that fucker’s heart instead of keeping him groaning in agonizing pain.

Dante held a moment of pity in his heart, and that’s why Marcus is still alive and breathing.

Then again, Marcus has plenty of skeletons in the depths of his closet, stacked up reminders of how he lost his entire pack…including his Omega.

The past molds the present, which is why I’m like this now with my organized system of technology.

Now every system is compartmentalized, all connections carefully monitored, and every potential vulnerability obsessively secured.

I won't let my trust become a weapon against my pack again.

Not ever.

My fingers move across the keyboard, initiating the final series of security protocols. Each keystroke is deliberate, each program carefully isolated from the others. Layer upon layer of protection, built from lessons learned in blood and betrayal.

The screens before me show different aspects of Ravenscroft's security - camera feeds, guard rotations, and power grid status. But unlike before, when I might have linked everything into one seamless system, now each feed runs independently.

Harder to manage? Yes.

More time-consuming? Absolutely.

But also impossible to compromise with a single breach.

I check the time again.

Fifteen minutes until the teams reach their positions. Fifteen minutes to ensure every failsafe is in place, every backup plan ready, and every possible angle covered.

The pain in my legs spikes suddenly, a sharp reminder of my body's ongoing betrayal. I grip the edge of my desk, riding out the wave of agony while keeping my eyes fixed on the screens.

Can't afford distractions now.

Not letting physical weakness compromise mental strength.

I force my attention back to the screens, back to the work that needs doing. The other laptop hums to life, displaying the deeper layers of Ravenscroft's security - the systems too dangerous to connect to our main network.

Through my earpiece, I hear the teams beginning to move into position. Their voices are professional now, focused, all earlier tension set aside in favor of mission readiness.

I pull up the building schematics one last time, reviewing the entry points and escape routes I've mapped out. Each possible path has been analyzed, each security measure accounted for, and any potential complication planned for.

That's what I do now.

Plan for betrayal.

Prepare for the worst.

Protect my pack from threats they might not even see coming.

The security alert flashes across my screen, drawing my immediate attention.

Nine minutes until the operation begins, but something's triggered my monitoring systems.

"What do we have here?" I murmur, pulling up multiple windows to trace the source.

Not a breach in our systems.

One of Ravenscroft's firewalls has crashed —— a momentary vulnerability in their otherwise ironclad security.

Odd. Did someone allow it?

A low whistle escapes me as I lean forward, fingers flying across the keyboard. This kind of opportunity doesn't come often, and I'm not about to waste it. I doubt its a trap, because why would they encourage foreign sources in having access to such crucial information?

Especially when they have multiple firewalls to protect these valuable sets of files.

Time to see what they're hiding about Patient 495.

The breach gives me access to deeper databases, areas previously locked behind security protocols that would have taken weeks to crack. I navigate through the digital labyrinth with practiced ease, following the path to a folder marked with her designation.

And there it is.

The file opens, and I freeze, staring at the name displayed prominently at the top:

Nyx Blackwood.

My heart rate kicks up, recognition hitting like a physical blow. Because that name - that surname - carries weight in our world. The kind of weight that makes even hardened operators pause.

Blackwood.

It should be a common name, the kind you'd find in any phone book. But not here, not in these tainted circles.

In the underground, there's only one Blackwood family that matters. One organization that's turned that name into something between legend and nightmare.

My mind races through everything I know about them: Primary suppliers for the black market medical industry. Control pharmaceutical distribution channels that make legitimate companies look like corner drug stores. Deep ties to every major mafia family from Italy to Germany to France. Influence that extends into levels of government we're not supposed to know exist…

But there's one detail that doesn't fit, one piece of information that's been consistent across all intelligence reports:

The Blackwoods never had children.

At least, that's what everyone believes.

But what if we've all been wrong?

My fingers hesitate over the keyboard as implications cascade through my mind. If Nyx really is a Blackwood — not just someone using the name, but actual blood relation — it would explain so much about her situation.

Why she's been kept alive for six years when most subjects don't last six months.

Why her security clearance is higher than any other patient.

Why they're so interested in her "progress."

She's not just another test subject.

She's a hidden heir to one of the most powerful criminal empires in existence.

The thought makes me dig deeper, pulling up everything I can find in her file while the firewall breach remains open.

Birth records first — heavily redacted, but I can make out enough to see they're legitimate. DNA profiles that confirm Blackwood lineage. Medical histories that paint a picture of someone whose very existence was carefully concealed from the world.

But why?

Why would a family with that much power hide their own child? And more importantly, why would they allow her to end up in a place like Ravenscroft?

Unless...

Unless they're the ones who put her here.

The possibility sits like ice in my stomach.

We've seen wealthy families dispose of unwanted omega children before, but this is different. The Blackwoods don't just discard assets - everything they do serves a purpose.

Which means Nyx isn't here by accident.

She's here by design.

My eyes scan through more documents, piecing a puzzle I'm not sure I want to solve. Because if I'm right - if this is what I think it is - then we're not just dealing with a standard rescue operation anymore.

We're stepping into the middle of a minefield.

And it’s only a matter of time before the bombs start going off

The timer on my screen shows seven minutes until the operation begins. Seven minutes to decide what to do with this information.

This means this operation is going to be “simple”; our extraction plan assumes we're dealing with a valuable but ultimately expendable test subject. The security response we've prepared for is based on standard facility protocols. None of our contingencies account for the possibility of Blackwood's involvement.

To many challenges are being stacked before us, and if I tell the others, would it stop them from trying?

No.

Yet…if the Blackwoods find out we're attempting to extract their hidden asset...

The thought doesn't bear finishing.

I've seen what happens to people who interfere with Blackwood family matters. It's never quick, clean, and far from forgivable.

But we can't abort the mission.

Her and the remaining three Omegas lives depend on it, and they should be given a chance of survival. Even if it means opening a can of worms that will do anything to lay consequences on them.

My hands hover over the keyboard as I debate my next move. Protocol says I should inform Atlas immediately - this kind of intelligence could fundamentally change our approach.

But something holds me back.

Sometimes knowing too much about a target can be as dangerous as knowing too little. It can make you hesitate when you need to act, make you second-guess decisions that should be automatic.

And tonight, we can't afford hesitation.

Instead, I focus on downloading everything I can while the breach remains open. Birth records, medical files, test results - anything that might help us understand who we're really dealing with.

The security breach begins to close, and Ravenscroft's systems automatically heal themselves. I work faster, grabbing final pieces of data before my window of opportunity slams shut.

I make my decision, encrypting the files I've downloaded and storing them in a secure partition. This information is too volatile and dangerous to risk transmitting now.

Better to wait, to see how things play out.

To be ready with the truth if we need it.

With five minutes remaining on the countdown, I make one final sweep through the files, determined to gather every piece of intelligence I can before the breach closes.

That's when I see it.

Her picture.

The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, like I've been punched in the gut. My eyes widen as goosebumps race down my spine, every hair standing on end as I stare at the image before me.

Those eyes.

Dark green, deep as forest pools, hauntingly familiar. The same eyes that have lived in my memory for years, that appear in dreams I try to forget when I wake.

"It can't be," I whisper, but there's no denying what I'm seeing.

The woman from that autumn day.

The one surrounded by a canvas of fall leaves in impossible shades of ivory and magenta. The one who carried the scent of my grandmother's cupcakes - that perfect blend of childhood memories and impossible possibilities.

The omega I let walk into that van, to never be seen again…until now.

My hands shake slightly as I lean closer to the screen, drinking in every detail. She's different now - years of captivity and experimentation have left their mark - but the core of her beauty remains untouched.

It's like looking at a masterpiece that's been through fire but somehow retained its essential grace.

The guilt hits me first, memories of that day rushing back with painful clarity: The white van waiting in that surreal valley. The moment our eyes met across the distance. The choice I made to stay put, ignoring every instinct screaming at me to follow.

All these years, I've carried that regret.

Wondered what might have happened if I'd acted differently, if I'd trusted my gut instead of my training. If I'd chased after her like every fiber of my being wanted to.

Would she be here now, trapped in Ravenscroft's depths?

Or would she have been spared from this ongoing nightmare?

The questions tear at me as I study her image. Despite everything they've done to her, despite the horrors she's endured, she's still breathtaking. There's a strength in her features that wasn't there before - something forged in pain and survival that only enhances her natural beauty.

My finger traces her face on the screen, a gesture as futile as it is involuntary. All these years of wondering what happened to her, of carrying that moment of connection like a wound that never quite healed.

And here she is.

Patient 495.

Nyx Blackwood.

The omega whose scent haunted me with memories of my grandmother's magical cupcakes.

The one I failed to protect.

The reality of what she's endured these past years makes me physically ill. Each detail in her file is another nail in the coffin of my guilt.

I could have stopped this.

Prevented six years of suffering.

Spared her from becoming their perfect M.U.S.E.

But I didn't.

I stayed in position, followed protocol, and ignored the pull that tried to draw me after that van. Told myself it wasn't my business, mission, or place to interfere.

And look what that decision cost her.

The image shows recent injuries - burns, cuts, evidence of their endless "trials" - but it's her eyes that capture me again. They're harder, carrying shadows that weren't there before, but still unmistakably the same ones that found mine across that autumn valley.

The same ones that seemed to see straight through to my soul in that frozen moment of connection.

My legs spasm violently, as if my body is physically reacting to the revelation. I grip the edge of my desk, riding out the wave of pain while keeping my eyes fixed on her image.

She survived.

My eyes linger on her photograph, the pixelated edges of her face still sharp enough to cut through my composure. I take a few breaths, praying another spasm of agony will not rush through my limbs, and when it doesn’t, I sigh in relief.

Wow…she really is stunning…

Leaning back in the chair, running a hand down my face in a futile attempt to quell the heat rising beneath my skin. It’s not just the past haunting me; it’s the now, the intoxicating idea that she might — even temporarily —be our Omega.

Temporarily…

Mine.

The word strikes something primal inside me, stirring instincts I’ve buried under years of discipline and pain.

It’s a dangerous thought, reckless and selfish in a way I’m not used to. I can’t let myself fall into this spiral — not when my team is depending on me.

But the way my body reacts says otherwise.

A shudder runs down my spine, pooling heat low in my stomach as the scent-memory of her sweet aroma overtakes me. My cock hardens against the constraint of my combat pants, a fierce and undeniable response to thoughts I can’t afford to entertain.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, glancing at the clock on the wall.

Four minutes until go time.

I should be double-checking the feeds, running diagnostics, anything but this.

Yet my gaze falls back to her image on the screen, the vibrant defiance in her eyes like a challenge aimed straight at me.

The kind of challenge that makes me forget who I’m supposed to be — an alpha whose focus should be on the mission, not the way my cock throbs at the thought of her.

Dragging a shaky hand to my mouth, I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to anchor myself. But the tension only grows, coiling tighter with every passing second.

If I had an omega, she’d help me through this. She’d ease the ache, and take care of my needs so I could focus. My body tightens at the thought of her on her knees before me, her lips wrapped around my length, her scent filling the air.

Fuck…

The image sends a bolt of heat through me, and my hand moves instinctively to my zipper.

I hesitate, every rational part of me screaming to stop, but the strain in my pants makes the decision for me. Slowly, I pull the zipper down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet van.

My cock springs free, thick and hard, the tightness finally giving way to relief. The cool air against my skin is almost enough to take the edge off — almost.

My hand wraps around my length, the motion automatic as my mind fixates on her. On Nyx. The thought of her lips, her body, the way her scent would cling to my skin — it’s all too much.

I stroke myself slowly at first, my thumb grazing over the tip, spreading the bead of precum that’s already formed. A low groan escapes me, muffled by my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

I glance back at her image, her face now blurred by the fog of my desire. The screen of my second laptop flickers slightly as I move faster, my strokes gaining urgency. Each motion brings a fresh wave of heat, the thought of her consuming me.

I’ve spent so long in control, burying this part of myself, and now it’s unraveling in her name.

“Nyx,” I moan, the sound raw and guttural, echoing in the enclosed space. My hips lift slightly off the chair as I chase the edge building inside me, the pleasure a sharp contrast to the bitter guilt clawing at the edges of my mind.

My hand pumps away, desperate for me to reach that grand launch of bliss, the panting breaths of my groans are as low as I can make them.

I’ve missed this odd sensation. That dangerous build of desire and lust that’s desperate to overwhelm every sensation through my body. How my body seems to cooperate so much more — not a speck of pain interrupting this moment of male normalcy while I chase this final wave that will lead me down that explosive end of euphoria.

Just a bit more…

I can imagine being deep in her hot pussy. Those walls constricting and milking me, and the best part was the way she’d look into my eyes.

No pity. No remorse. Just lust, desire, and passion for what I can do with this cock of mine.

Purpose.

The climax hits like a freight train, my body convulsing as my release spills out in hot, thick spurts. It coats the screen in front of me, the sticky remnants of my desire dripping down over her image.

I’m a panting mess, needing to lean back into the chair while I see the mess I’ve made. The sight is almost too much, a physical representation of the twisted obsession I’ve been harboring without really realizing it.

To think how fate is tempting me in such a profound way.

My chest heaves as I come down, the reality of what I’ve just done crashing over me like a cold wave. The earpiece crackles to life, Atlas’s voice cutting through the haze.

“Vale, we’re in position,” he says, his tone calm but expectant. “Do you copy?”

Show time…

I close my eyes, taking a moment to collect myself before wiping my hand on a spare cloth and reaching for the earpiece.

“Copy,” I reply, my voice steady despite the lingering tremor in my limbs. “Standing by for your signal. I’ll confirm if there’s any signs of interference.”

“Good,” Atlas responds. “We’re waiting for you to make the first move.”

I glance back at the photograph, now streaked and distorted, a reminder of the line I’ve just crossed.

There’s no time to dwell on it now.

The mission takes precedence. Lives depend on me, and I can’t afford another moment of weakness.

Sliding forward in my chair, I pull up the necessary protocols, my fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced precision.

The adrenaline kicks in, pushing aside the remnants of my guilt and desire as the operation begins.

But even as I immerse myself in the task, a single thought lingers at the back of my mind:

What would she think if she knew? Would she be disgusted by me?

The answer haunts me, as does the realization that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe — alive — even if it means confronting the parts of myself I’ve tried so hard to keep buried.

Hold on, Nyx.

We're coming.

And this time, I won't let you disappear.